So as many of you are aware by now, I did, in fact, make it to NYC in one piece and I am pleased to report that I have stayed that way, despite the temptation to start selling by non-essential organs in exchange for a swanky 5th Avenue address.
My latest adventure started the same way that most do: with a wild last minute flurry of activity which I really ought to have completed at a much earlier stage. I was hanging washing on the line the night before I left. I was googling immigration requirements in the car on the way to the airport. I booked my first few night's of accommodation when they called me to board the plane. And despite the fact that I have eaten approximately one meat pie in the entire year that I've been back in the country, upon realising that a so-called "dirty street pie" would be out of my reach in America, I demanded a pie as my farewell breakfast before going through security.
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| This is the opposite of me. Image Credit: https://pbs.twimg.com/media/BwmeQfoCMAEQt_M.jpg:large |
So I managed to get on my plane without any major dramas (certainly nothing like the Self Loading Rifle/Single Lens Reflex debarcle of 2012). I did, however, make a new friend, who I will call Phyllis. They say that it's not the destination that matters, it's the journey. I say that with friends with Phyllis - the destination is important. More specifically, the count down to the destination, is important. Because that was the count down that kept me sane, and Phyllis alive.
Phyllis was approximately 90 years old and had apparently never been on a flight before. Her daughters, were taking her on a wine tour of Southern California for her birthday. How nice of her daughters to take her, you might say. And to you I say, no.
See, Phyllis' daughters were "conveniently" not seated in the same row as her, despite the fact that there were three seats in all parts of the aircraft. No. Phyllis' daughters were a few rows ahead. So I had a very excited grandmother, on her very first international flight, seated next to me. And Phyllis was just so thrilled to be on the flight. And spend the next 12 hours telling me about how excited she was. And running a commentary on everything happening in/on/around the plane. Not even noise-reducing headphones could deter good ol' Phyllis from her soliloquy. When I watched "Les Mis". We both did. Phyllis even had a red hot go at singing "On My Own", and at that point, I was starting to feel like Eponine really didn't know how good she had it in her solitude.
But more importantly, eventually I managed to get Phyllis to order some wine and she went to sleep. And we both made it to LAX.
And thus continued my love affair with American customs (I know that I didn't blog about this [yet] but in my jaunt last year I was detained for questioning on two separate occasions when entering the US - the second time is a funny story, involving two bicycles and accidentally joining a motorcycle gang when riding on a 5-lane freeway back onto US soil). Anywho, with a little over an hour to make my connection, it was always going to be a close shave. Which was why it was fabulous to make it into the customs room to see an eff-off huge line. But I made it to the front of the line without too much delay (although there was only about fifteen minutes until boarding), only to encounter the most vigilant immigration officer in the entire system. Who was deeply disappointed that I failed to hand in this green piece of paper from my trip last year, which means that the US "didn't know" that I'd left the country at all. I assured him that I had. We then debated whether or not I had left. For future reference, a plane ticket and arriving in the international terminal of LAX is not proof of recently having arrived in the US on an international flight. We managed to overcome our differences eventually (I pointed out my Japanese visa, my new visa issuing office being based in Australia, the fact that his computer screen clearly said that I'd left the country, etc), only for me to be told that I actually didn't need to wait in any lines at all because of my visa type, and I should have just gone straight through a different part of the airport.
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| Me in Brisbane airport. Before I met Phyllis and super vigilant immigration guy. When I still had joy in my life. |
The flight from LAX to the East Coast is truly magnificent. You fly over the Grand Canyon, deserts, forests, farmland and heaps of towns/cities. It is an incredible snapshot of America. Which is why it was such a shame for me to have slept for, literally, the entire way. But if you have the good fortune to take the same flight, I highly recommend staying awake.
I landed in NYC at about 5pm on Wednesday (technically the same day that I left - I love me a good time zone change) and we went straight to our hostel on the Upper West Side. The hostel was acceptable, being the top of the bottom third of all hostels I have ever stayed in. And they get bonus points for what I like to call "Helping those who help themselves" factor - in that when the toilet and shower lights kept shorting out, they just showed me where the fuse box was and suggested that I just "play with the switches until the lights work again". Seems legit. But it was right next to Central Park so it was definitely a good first base while I found my feet.
The next morning I started househunting. I'm super lucky, in that one of the other interns in my program was also arriving with me (on the same flight) and we had arranged (with another intern) to share housing, so the burden was definitely shared. We camped out in a Starbucks in Morningside Heights (next to Columbia University) for about 3 hours scouring Craigslist/StreetEasy/AirBnB and a million other sites trying to find suitable digs. It was an absolute nightmare. Renting in NYC is a traumatising experience at the best of times and is absolutely rife with scams (my favourite article that ruining all house hunting for me here), so with a healthy dose of scepticism we were emailing brokers left, right and centre to make appointments to view places.
NYC is a unique place to rent in that tenants have to pay a fee to the brokers for the privilege of renting an apartment, rather than the owner paying the agents to have the place filled - seems more than a little backwards. And brokers ask for the stars, the moon and your first born child for their fees (some places ask for a full month's rent, others as for up to 20% of total rent per month). I won't bore you with the details of every exchange with every broker (although highlights include the broker who doesn't use punctuation at all, the broker who writes everything in all capitals and the broker who thinks that $14,000/month rent equals $250 per night), but eventually we managed to line up an inspection for that night.
Long story short, we inspected the place (a charming, spacious 4BD/2BATH apartment in Midtown West [nb. Mid-West is not an acceptable abbreviation, because it apparently means I live in Wyoming], it was perfect and we made plans to move in the next day. Of course, there were dramas with getting all the right documentation (dealing with 4 people in three time zones with different banks) on time, and we weren't able to move in as planned and had to wait until Monday. Over the weekend, I ran the full gamut of emotions - excitement, scepticism, fear, anxiety and the feeling of relief when we moved in and the keys worked, and there was no sign of any recent murders, was absolutely amazing.
And so now we're here. Home sweet home for the next few months.
I'll try to be less of a dud and actually post here semi-regularly (at least weekly ish), but in case I don't - here's my Instagram feed so you can see more frequent sporadic updates: http://instagram.com/scattergunapproach
